


Love In Isolation

by FyrMaiden



Series: With Hairspray and Denim [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2205843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of reasons that Mercedes loves Blaine. His magic hands are just one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love In Isolation

The house always smells like good home cooking, and that’s one of Mercedes’ favourite things about having Blaine living with her. He enjoys food, and he likes to take care of people, and there is always something edible to be had when she gets home with her feet aching and another long day behind her. He’s always ready with hot tea and a smile, and sometimes with dusty handprints on his ass that make her laugh and tell him to turn around so she can dust the flour from his perfect little butt. Any excuse, she tells herself, is a good excuse, and he really does have a cute behind.

As a roommate, he is fundamentally unobtrusive as well. He doesn’t wander around the brownstone wearing just his underpants (thank you, Sam). He doesn’t stay up into the small hours watching terrible TV, getting popcorn or cornflakes or corn chips down the back of the couch (also Sam, and if she didn’t love him she’d throw him out). If he’s not coming home, he always texts to let her know she can lock up and not worry about him. He is meticulously tidy (“A place for everything,” he says, helping her with the groceries, “And everything in its place.” She arches an eyebrow at him and he grins back at her. “Ass,” she mouths.), self-contained, and actually very funny, to a point where she thinks she’ll actually be sad when he and Kurt sort their shit out and he moves back with his boo.

Her absolute favourite thing about Blaine, though, is the bona fide fact that he has magical healing hands.

She first discovers this fact after a long day in the studio. She can feel the tension she’s carrying in her shoulders when she gets home. There’s a candle burning on the table by the door, and fresh flowers in a vase behind it. The air smells of amber and the headier scent of the lilies, undercut by warm cookies. It’s nice, it’s good. She kicks her shoes off at the foot of the stairs, slides her jacket off of her shoulders, and heads up the stairs to change.

When she comes back down, more comfortable already in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, Blaine has hot tea on the coffee table and she sighs her gratitude as she sinks into the couch. The first sip is heavenly. Blaine always uses a splash of cold water to make tea drinkable without having to wait for it to cool down. She doesn’t even try to suppress her groan, eyes slipping closed as the tea slides down her throat. He looks up from the magazine he’s reading, and then places it very carefully on the floor beside him.

“Long day?” he asks, and she places the tea back on the table and rolls her shoulders slowly.

“You have no idea,” she responds, sinking back into her seat and pointing her toes, trying to ease her aching muscles.

“Let me,” he says, and gestures for her to turn around, shifting in his own seat to tuck one leg under his other thigh. “My mom used to do this for me.”

Mercedes is almost entirely ignorant of Anderson family politics but she does know that Blaine’s mom has taken classes on ayurvedic therapy and reiki, and so she turns around slowly. She feels him shift behind her, and she turns her head to warn him, “No funny business, mister,” over her shoulder. She can’t see him but she can feel the humour in the smile she knows he’s wearing, and then his warm strong hands are on her shoulder blades, the pads of his thumbs digging into the knots of her muscles. She doesn’t even try to suppress the groan that works its way up from her stomach and vibrates through her diaphragm. Her need for a two hour soak in a tub filled mostly with bubbles starts to ebb beneath Blaine’s touch and she may not have much – or anything, really – to base this on, but she’d go so far as to call the experience orgasmic. She doesn’t think that’s a stretch. She feels herself tip forward, and the shift of Blaine behind her, and she presses her hands into the couch cushion as her eyes close. If she could bottle the feeling inside of her right now, she’s pretty sure she could flat out buy the brownstone. And maybe an island somewhere remote and not too hot.

It’s only when Blaine laughs and runs his hands down her spine that she realises she’s been thinking out loud, and she turns to face him with her eyes sheepish and her skin flushed. She picks up her mug with one wobbly hand and then cups it in both to cover herself. She feels vaguely boneless, and she blows on her cool tea as she gathers her thoughts. Blaine settles back into his corner of the couch and gathers his magazine from the floor.

“Does Kurt know about this?” she asks, and Blaine looks at her over the top of his magazine, his smile coy now, and enigmatic. She laughs and nods her head and feels her eyes slipping closed. She doesn’t even try to protest when Blaine’s hands wrap around hers, taking the mug and standing it back on the table. “I bet Kurt knows all about this. Minx is holding out on us,” she says to the ceiling, and Blaine’s chuckle feels like confirmation. She can’t be bothered to move her head to actually look at him though. 

As she slowly settles back into her skin, and as she finally finishes her tea, she watches as Blaine reads methodically through his magazine, his forehead scrunched with concentration. There’s no denying that the boy is a sweetie, with his definitive personal style and his buttoned down prep school polish. He’s polite and kind and helpful, and it’s frankly a damn shame he’s on a different team because he’s exactly the kind of boy she knows her family would approve of. She also knows she’s staring, and the way Blaine’s bright intelligent eyes are watching her over the top of his magazine imply that he knows she is as well. She blushes again and pushes herself to her feet, gathering their mugs as she goes. “You’re gonna make that boy a fine husband,” she says, bustling into the kitchen. “Just as soon as you all sort your mess out.” And then, poking her head back out of the kitchen, “And in case that fool hasn’t said it, those hands of yours? I’m pretty sure that’s voodoo.”

Blaine laughs softly and inclines his head. “Namaste, Mercedes.”


End file.
